


A flying, giant friction blast

by gloss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Hair-pulling, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Pre-TFA, and the flyboys who love them, bangable human disasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 07:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16259123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: They keep running into each other and ending up here. Han's certain it doesn't mean anything. Not a thing. Nothing, really.This is explicit and there's not much besides sex. (And self-loathing and deliberate obliviousness, becauseHan.)





	A flying, giant friction blast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubynye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/gifts).



> thanks to @orchis for validation & cheering; she notes that, properly, the pairing ought to be _Irresistible & Impish Hoe Dameron/Pansexual Disaster Han Solo_ , but weirdly, that's not a canonical tag
> 
> title & epigraph from Liz Phair, "[Supernova](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tM60GAPIXTY)"
> 
> for Nye with so many thanks & so much love ♥

> You walk in clouds of glitter and the sun reflects your eyes  
>  And every time the wind blows, I can smell you in the sky  
>  Your kisses are as wicked as an F-16  
>  And you fuck like a volcano, and you're everything to me  
> 

 

This keeps happening, and he really needs to do something about it. It's stupid, for one thing, and dangerous, and it's never going to go anywhere, so what, exactly, does he think he's actually accomplishing?

"Harder," Dameron says and Han grunts as he complies. 

They're crammed into a room off the complex of the municipal baths, only it's not a room so much as a nook, and a cramped one at that. Instead of a door, there's a length of fabric that reaches neither side to side nor to the floor.

And all the same, here's Dameron, plastered against the far wall, pushing his ass back, grinding against Han's cock like they were both programmed for this and only this. His ugly civilian jersey's rucked up to his armpits, his trousers tugged down to just above his knees, and he's _crooning_ for it, for Han, for more.

Han's knees don't like standing this long in one position and he's got a crick in his neck and annoying flutter in his side, but he's also harder than he's been in _cycles_. Since the last time this just up and happened—then, it was yet another regal occasion, won't the wayward pirate deign to make an appearance, and Han drank too much, so did Leia, and Dameron caught his arm as he stumbled in search of the pisser. Looked up at him through those damn lashes and said his title and name all hoarse like he likes to do. It should've been enough to make Han laugh in his face and keep right on walking.

But somehow he keeps _stopping_. And then getting stuck here, mouth on the nape of Dameron's neck, fucking him hard against the wall (or counter or bulkhead or, once, a balcony railing) or pushing him down to his knees and slapping his cock against those big, pretty eyes and smart, smart mouth.

"Come _on_ —" Dameron twists a little, cheek against the wall, looking back over his shoulder. "What's the problem?"

"No problem."

"You sure about that?"

"You sure you wanna keep mouthing off?"

Dameron bites his lip. His cheek hollows, gets darker, and Han thrusts in, higher this time, pulling the kid up onto his toes. He's little, that's the thing. Not tiny like Leia or Q'ira, but...smaller. Far from delicate, definitely stubborn, he's got meat on his frame and a strength to him that's making Han's eyes cross and mouth go dry with panting.

"I just don't to waste your time," Dameron says eventually, just as Han digs nails into his hips and pulls him _down_ , the better to fuck into him. "Fuck, okay."

"Okay, what?" His teeth find Dameron's sweaty hair, then his ear, and close. He shakes him and hears the kid whine.

"Okay, _sir_."

"Nice try."

"Captain? General." Dameron braces himself on the wall and rolls his forehead against his arm. Handsome little shit with a snarky streak as wide as any Han's ever seen. "Fuck me."

"Keep going." Han leans back, shifts his weight, and gets a rapid series of flickering pulses as he scrapes over Dameron's prostate. He works one hand into the sweaty, tangled mess of Dameron's curls and pulls until Dameron's back is arched, his neck a glittering curve, his mouth open and swollen.

"Please," Dameron says. 

Han twists his hold and pulls a little harder. Dameron's crazy for the pain, always leaning into it when he blows Han, begging for more when he's bent over like this. And there's something _perfect_ about how he bows for it, flows into Han's hold and stretches tighter.

Han grinds to a stop and, keeping hold of the slick hair (every bit as curly as his mama's, but coarser and darker, like his pop's), bites Dameron's throat and crowds him all the more against the wall.

"I want to come," he tells Han. "Please."

His body is hot, slick, shivering against Han's. This is stupid and crazy and, right now, Han can't get enough. This kind of stupid shit is exactly the kind of thing everyone who's ever known him would expect him to pull. Who is Han to disappoint anyone?

(Don't answer that.)

"Let me feel it," Han whispers, right into Dameron's ear, holding him so tightly that his arm's going numb and Dameron's breathing can't seem to find a rhythm.

Dameron rolls his hips and Han strokes him hard, keeps stroking him, tasting all the sweat and heat as his teeth pull on Dameron's earlobe.

"You like that?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, Daddy," Poe whispers, eyes screwed shut, and his voice breaks as he shudders in Han's arms and shoots. The trembling up inside him quadruples, tugs the pleasure out of Han's own dick and pulls him taut and keening. It's a lie, just like all the rest of this. None of this _means_ anything, no tenderness, nothing to last. Dameron's got a real father, a good man, and Han won't ever be more than an old wreck who somehow keeps going on sheer bloodymindedness.

"You do," Han says in a few moments, pulling out, his legs shaking. His hands are shaking, too, and his cock's sticky from lube and his own cum, and he can smell Dameron all over his upper lip. "You love it."

He's tugging down his jersey, but he looks up at that. The dark hair low on his belly is matted with spunk and sweat; the hair crowding his eyes is sharp and wet. "Wouldn't be here if I didn't."

Han doesn't have anything to say to that. And then, thank fuck, his mind clears and he suddenly has _everything_ to say to that.

"Must be nice," Han says and wipes his hands on the curtain substituting for door. "Be young, do whatever you please, whatever you like."

Poe jerks his head to get the hair out of his eyes. The sex-flush is still dark, high on his cheeks and splashing down his throat. When he speaks, he sounds bored, maybe angry. Who the fuck knows. "Something like that, sure."

"Are you _sulking_?"

He frowns, then yanks up his trousers and fastens them. "Am I? Just preoccupied. Got this contact to meet, and..." He shrugs. "You should come. Negotiate a little. I could use some tips."

"For what?"

"Matériel, mostly. Maybe some recruits." He squares his shoulders and Han sees everything Leia sees in him: not his parents, but his own man, young and brave and fucking stupid and foolhardy, ready to follow her to the very last. "We could use someone with your experience."

"Keep dreaming, kiddo." Han claps him on the shoulder and pushes the curtain aside. The bright double-noon light outside makes it impossible to see what's behind him. "I'm heading out. Got to see a humanoid about a fathier."


End file.
